


the follies of lesser men

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Dubious Consent, F/M, POV Outsider, Paired Ficlets, Power Imbalance, Reviving the Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Fabius Bile and the Revival of Calliphone of Olympia.  Wherein Fabius disapproves but cannot do so openly and Perturabo (for once) does not care much for thehowso long as the base goal is achieved.
Relationships: Perturabo/Calliphone
Kudos: 12
Collections: PB Anon Meme - 2020





	1. the follies of lesser men

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to _a little bird told me_.  
> Comes with a bonus short set immediately after from Calliphone's POV.

It was unusual for Fabius to work under observation, to say nothing of working under the hawkish gaze of a Primarch. He found himself grateful for his own Primarch's distant ways. Though Fulgrim had been just as concerned with the results of his research, he had nonetheless understood that science was best left to the scientists.

The fundamental difference, he supposed, was that the Lord of Iron was just as interested in the _how_ as he was with the _what_ , whereas the Phoenician — especially in his changed form — cared only for the end result.

Unnerving didn't begin to describe the atmosphere, but Fabius took solace in the knowledge that he had worked under conditions more strenuous than that of the present. The degradation of the geneseed in the formative years of the Third Legion was one. The presumed loss of their Primarch in the wake of Isstvan V was another. Compared to those two scenarios, this was nothing.

Still, he would be a fool to think their lost love between his own gene-father and the demigod before (well actually behind) him and so he wisely set aside a bunch of cells with the intent of cultivating a braineater virus in the reanimated woman. It was meant to be a fail-safe of sorts, to be triggered only with the cessation of his primary heart, on the off-chance the Lord of Iron would not allow him to return to the fleet proper unmolested.

How Perturabo recognised the configuration of cells was anyone's guess, especially as the splice had been born in one of Fabius' own labs, but Fabius had no sooner extracted the sample from one of dozens of identical vials than the Lord of Iron snatched his hand out, lightning-fast as if this were a battlefield and not a sepulchre-turned-apothecarium.

"There's no need," the Emperor's Fourth Son said, squeezing Fabius' wrist that small amount to hint at the promise of a threat. "As soon as my sister is revived, you will be permitted to return to the _Locrian_."

"You will forgive my trespasses, lord," Fabius murmured, slowly easing his hand out of the Primarch's grasp.

"Only because I have need of you," the Lord of Iron answered. He drew back, distancing himself once more from the Chief Apothecary's hastily-assembled lab.

As Fabius was busying himself with the reconstruction of the body proper, the Primarch spoke again.

"Do not think me blind to your excesses," he warned. "Consider it instead a form of payment."

Fabius swallowed. The Lord of Iron must have been speaking of the additional blood he had drawn. Though there was a modicum of truth in the substance's regenerative qualities, Fabius had of course taken more than necessary. He nodded his head and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

"It is as you say, my lord," he murmured.

As he had previously (privately) thought, it was excessive to use his talents for the revival of a mortal woman. Given access to a proper lab, he might've revived an army of her ilk with the wave of a hand. It was unusual too, that the Lord of the Iron Warriors, infamous for wasting his own men hand over fist, might have gotten attached to a human, pseudo-siblings though they were. As Fabius was double-checking the nerves and ligaments on her fingers and wrists, he thought back to his own battle-brother of old and his untimely death.

Lycaeon had been far more worthy. Golden, glorious, second only to Akurduana with a blade. And so, so, optimistic. Though it hurt to look at him at times, it nonetheless hurt less than being entirely without.

Some of Lycaeon's softness must have bled into him for he found himself undoing the greater evidence of aging, the sort of reconstructive surgery the Terran elite would pay a manse for.

He was rewarded with a murmur of contentment from the Primarch at the end of his efforts. The woman before him had been restored to the prime of her life, a little before the Emperor had been reunited with his wayward son if the Remembrancers' chronologies were correct. None might mistake her to be a child, yet her face and form retained some inkling of youthfulness. Her altered form had no need of the augmetics that had been sewn into her dress and, between Fabius' restorative treatment and the Primarch blood that was soon to flow through her veins, it was likely she would never have any need for said devices.

The Chirurgeon made the final series of stitches, a coup de grace of sorts. The operation, from start to finish, had taken six hours and twenty-eight minutes.

"Wait," Perturabo said.

Fabius paused, taking a moment to reign back the mechanical arm.

"My lord?" he asked.

"I would have her clothed in more fitting garments," the Lord of Iron said. A pair of servitors rolled out from the shadows, carrying a long white gown decorated with diamantine and sapphirite. Fabius watched, unable to stop his knee-jerk revulsion to the hideous sentimentality that would prompt such a gesture. The machine on his back tittered in agreement, though the Primarch thankfully paid neither of them any heed.

"And the medical equipment too," the Lord of Iron added, right as the servitors were rolling away. They about-faced at his command and rolled back towards the limelight where they cleaned up the rest of the temporary workbench.

"You may proceed," he said to Fabius when he was left with only a syringe and the Chirurgeon to his name. For a moment, he was tempted to defy the other. To chastise him at the very least for divesting so many resources — and in the middle of the most bloody conflict they would ever experience to boot — for such a menial whim. But then he saw the dangerous glimmer in the other's eyes and quickly swallowed his words.

This was a man who had been biding his time, Fabius understood. This was a man who would not hesitate to see the rest of the galaxy in flames, so long as his own needs were met. And was this inherent selfishness not what his own Primarch not epitomised? Perhaps it was as inherent as violence and self-destruction. Perhaps it was a figment of the Emperor's design.

In any case, Fabius raised the syringe and carefully aligned it with the central artery, located on the left side of the neck. With practiced ease, he pressed it in before depressing the plunger.

A mixture of revitalisation compounds and the Primarch's ichor, the breath of life in essence, flowed into the corpse.

He pulled the empty syringe away and handed it off to the Chirurgeon. He had no doubt he would see it again in his own lab.

"It is done," he told the waiting Primarch.

The Lord of Iron drew a long breath before striding forth to meet his sister. The woman would only wake with a touch; another sentimental gesture Fabius disapproved of; but the Primarch — the demigod who had razed dozens of planets and who would go on to lead the assault against the Throneworld itself — hesitated so. At last, right as Fabius was about to reach out and wake the sleeping princess himself, he moved, extending on trembling hand to brush against the woman's cheek.

Like a storybook scene, the sister's eyes fluttered open. She saw her brother, and instantly recognised him, reaching up to clasp his wrist with both her hands.

"Bo," she said.

"Calliphone," the Lord of Iron answered, making it clear who the diminutive was meant for. He knelt down then, pressing his lips to her brow, and Fabius wished he might shield his eyes. It was unbecoming, for a brother of his own gene-sire to act in such a manner, and all the more irksome that he might bear witness to such manner of reunion.

The tell-tale creak from the Chirurgeon drew the Lord of Iron's attentions away. He looked up and narrowed his eyes; there was not a trace of gratitude in his gaze.

"Leave us," he commanded.

"Yes, lord," Fabius answered, bowing at the waist.

"Forrix," he added, opening the vox, "Escort the Chief Apothecary back to his own ship. See that he makes it out of the system."

There followed a buzz of static. If Fabius strained his ears, he was sure he could make out the First Captain's response. But he did not want to; he had seen and heard enough. It was unbecoming. Far more unbecoming that the form his own gene-sire had taken on. Despite his disapproval, he knew it was not his place to judge and so quickly made himself scarce, grateful for somber march back to the eleventh harbour, where the _Locrian_ was still dutifully-docked.

*

Once they were given permission to depart the system, the captain of the light cruiser was understandably curious.

"What did he have you do?" he asked, as Fabius was admiring the vial of Primarch's blood he had gotten for his troubles.

"A fool's errand," Fabius answered. "The less said of it, the better."

The captain bowed his head, withdrawing once more to the command deck.

Fabius held the vial up and thought back to the series of infants who were still awaiting judgment.

"Four down," he murmured, "And fourteen left."


	2. cut from some greater cloth

For a long time after her return to the material realm, Calliphone kept her eyes closed, drinking in the warmth that came from her youngest older brother's embrace.

Perturabo, then, was the first to pull away. He drew back before moving a finger to rest gently beneath her chin.

"Sister," he prompted, "Will you not look upon me?"

She sighed before opening her eyes in compliance. As expected, he had not changed. He was still as radiant as he had been the day he bested the best of them, the day he had plunged their world into war, the day he had met with his true father.

He was still as radiant as he had been the day he killed her.

She suppressed a shudder and turned her cheek towards him. He leaned over, grazing her brow with another light kiss.

"Sister," he said as he drew back again, "Surely you have questions."

Calliphone arched an eyebrow and the action drew her centre-ward. "Surely?" she repeated, and recognised herself startlingly well in the haughty tone she alone could employ before her brother. "Surely I still have a brain between my ears," she continued, "And am subsequently capable of resolving my own inquiries."

"Calliphone," Perturabo said, and there it was, that fraught tone torn between praise and scorn which he only ever used with her. He rested a great hand on her shoulder and kissed her brow a third time.

"I have erred," he confessed. "I have wronged you dearly. But I will atone. You will see."

Calliphone would have protested if she thought it would have been of any use. But he had always been like this, caught up in his own ideas and ideals, even before he received confirmation that he had been cut from some greater cloth. Instead, she looped her arms about his neck, as she had done many times before. Gone were the wrinkles. Gone were the compensatory augmentations. She was certain that if she brushed her hands against her neck, the evidence of her murder would be gone as well.

"Bo," she said. "You don't have to. I already forgive you."

He pulled away again and searched her face, her eyes, for any sign of hesitation. It was so strange to look at him, at once foreign and yet so so familiar. He looked like a lost child then, reaching out to clasp her shoulder.

"I'm sorry Calliphone," he whispered, "I'm sorry. I missed you so. I couldn't -- " he curled his fingers in her tresses, tresses which she was sure were restored to their original sunlight-gold hue. He took a deep breath and kissed her brow again. "I'll make it up to you," he promised again, pulling back and then helping her to her feet. "You'll see. My Father will fall and in his demise, the galaxy will at last know peace."

Calliphone allowed herself to be led down the aisle. Neither the dress nor the sea of flowers were lost on her. Perturabo's grip on her hand and waist were pointedly loose, but then, she had nowhere else to run.

She had a confession of her own to make.

"Bo," she sighed, and he turned to look at her once more, "I have always known you were made for war and that you love it so."

Perturabo shook his head.

"Be that as it may," he admitted, "I now see I can be so much more."


End file.
